


Taken by the Sea

by ryukoishida



Category: Arslan Senki | Heroic Legend of Arslan
Genre: Arslan is around 20 years old, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 12:02:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6657031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryukoishida/pseuds/ryukoishida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a relaxing day by the seaside in Gilan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taken by the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a friend's birthday! I will probably never write this ship again, just because writing this has fried my brain.

Summer in the coastal town of Gilan is bustling with life. The stalls along the port market are colorful and vibrant, like a scenery painted with intricate details. There are shopkeepers selling fresh produce and seafood, artisans promoting their handmade goods, people bargaining over prices, and children weaving in between on the busy streets.

 

On one such path, two figures who, though have tried their best to blend in, but are still earning curious or admiring glances from passersby, are strolling along leisurely, the tail-ends of their clothes fluttering like carefree wings in the sultry afternoon breeze, slightly briny from the sea.

 

The older man’s figure easily towers over everyone else, and with his sharp golden eyes, ink-black hair tied neatly to the back of his head, a broadsword strapped to his waist, a somber visage, and rippling toned muscles not even remotely hidden by the navy blue linen of his sleeveless tunic, the Black Knight’s appearance is intimidating and fierce even at first glance. Walking adjacent to him is a young man of slighter built donning mostly white and highlighted in pale blue and turquoise accents; his silver hair, outgrown from his earlier teenage years, cascades over his shoulders and glitters when the sunlight hits it just right, and with a sweet, gentle smile on his delicately milky complexion, vigorous midnight-blue eyes that draw people in, and the approachable attitude that exudes from his being, King Arslan is the perfect portrait of a youthful summer spirit.

 

Ever since they’d uprooted the nest of pirates that had been foraging and destroying the town’s peace and economy almost six years ago, Gilan, under the competent leadership and the good, enthusiastic nature of Gulaze, has been thriving more than ever. Every year since reclaiming Ecbatana, Gulaze always invites the young Shah and his companions to visit and escape the dreaded heatwaves in the capital city. And even though Arslan and his subordinates are constantly busy, they always take at least a week to stay at Gulaze’s residence.

 

“Besides, it’s an excellent opportunity to observe the public’s sentiments as well, Your Majesty,” Narsus has agreed with a nod, promising the king that he and Kishward will take care of the happenings in the court while Arslan is away.

 

After a day scheduled with meetings with the town’s merchants, Arslan and his guardian are now heading towards the seaside, where it’s rumored to have the best view of the sunset.

 

To both men’s surprise, the beach appears to be quite deserted at this hour of the day. Children have left traces of their creations – half crumbled sand castles – in their wakes as they walk towards the direction of a more covert area bordered by haphazardly laid-out boulders that reach all the way down into the waters, their toes digging pleasantly into the small dunes of coarse sand and making imprints that immediately get washed away by the water currents crawling up the beach.

 

“Will this do, Your Majesty?” Daryun asks, pointing to a spot higher up the sloped shore where the claws of the sea cannot reach.

 

“Perfect,” Arslan smiles up at him, silver lashes catching the ray of the late afternoon sun, and it takes Daryun a full five seconds before he realizes he’s been staring and words have conveniently escaped him.

 

With his cheeks darkened with warmth, the knight quickly lowers his head as he places a blanket on the ground and proceeds to put their belongings – some extra clothes and water for the young Shah – on top.

 

Behind him, he hears rustling of fabric, and Daryun is almost afraid to turn around, knowing that what he sees will probably be burned into the back of his mind, and no amount of wine will be able to wash those images away tonight.

 

“Will you not join me, Daryun?” Arslan asks as he carefully stacks his tunic, cloak, and sandals onto the blanket, and adds with a bright, longing smile towards the sea, “The water looks most welcoming in this heat.”

 

“I should stay on shore and keep guard, Your Majesty,” Daryun insists, his gaze cautious of straying anywhere lower than Arslan’s neck, where he knows the expanse of pale skin, subtle muscles that have developed over years of swordsmanship training, supple and yielding under the tips of his fingers, extends to the hem of the man’s linen trousers, hipbone jutting out tantalizingly… He swallows with difficulty as he turns his head slightly to the side. “There has been a few reported sightings of suspicious persons in town – possibly spies sent from Turk.”

 

“I appreciate your dedication, but one of these days, I fear that your vigilant tendencies may risk affliction to your health,” the tone of concern in Arslan’s soft voice causes the knight to pause as he lifts his head to look at the young Shah. The expression of disappointment may have been Daryun’s imagination, for it flashes past Arslan’s eyes before it flees once more to reveal his usual genteel gaze. “Suit yourself, then.”

 

Arslan shrugs with a benign smile; he turns around and jogs towards the water, the silver chains around both of his ankles, with shards of unpolished emerald* dangling on them, glittering like stars.

 

And so about half an hour passes by without any incidents as Daryun attentively keeps watch of their surroundings, but in all honesty, even the Black Knight has to admit that there’s no suspicious beings or dangerous hazards that require his special attention. That is, until he returns his gaze towards the open sea, which, just a short moment ago, supposedly contains the king of Pars, who’s been splashing in the shallow ends, in its watery embrace.

 

Daryun gets to his feet with such speed that he almost trips over his own feet, his eyes frantically searching for his liege but to no avail. The rippling sea is calm, the surface of its blue-green depths turning into a sheen of gold, coral pink, and violet casted by the setting sun, but it’s horrifyingly empty, void of any presence.

 

“Arslan-heika?” Daryun calls out, the precious name, syllables thick and heavy, getting stuck in between his clumsy tongue and parched throat.

 

Nothing.

 

“Arslan-heika!”

 

His voice still trembles, almost imperceptible in the deafening crash of waves against the shore that echoes in his ears and within the walls of his mind, blank but with dismaying images that urges him forward, arms wildly splashing as if he can push apart the water to reveal a path of land from mere will alone. Panicked golden eyes continue to seek for any signs of the young king, and he feels the burning sensation prickling at the corner of his eyes where droplets of salt water have streaked down.

 

When he’s gone far enough from shore, and the water level is now past his chest, Daryun, turning this way and that, limbs slowed down by the motion of the sea and his heart pounding so hard that it hurts to breathe – and even fighting an entire army on his own has never been this frightening – senses the whispering of something around him under water where he cannot see clearly.  

 

“Arslan-hei­­––!”

 

Daryun exhales sharply as he feels himself slip into the murky depths with an unsuspectingly solid pull to his wrist, his feet having little traction on the slimy floor.

 

It takes him only a few seconds to find his footing again, and when he does, hair dripping messily all over his face and eyes rapidly blinking away the briny residue as he combs his hair back, the peal of unabashed laughter, like wind chimes that swirl and jangle daintily in the breeze, rings loud and clear, bouncing off the lulling rumble of the sea.

 

The blurry figure of the Shah swims before him, his fingers are still encircled around his guardian’s wrist.

 

“Your Majesty…?” Daryun rubs his eyes with the back of his other hand for good measure.

 

“I apologize, Daryun,” Arslan tells him, the corner of his lips pulled into a small mischievous grin and a hint of giggles still evident in his tone as he wades closer to the dark-skinned knight, deft fingers brushing away beads of water still clinging to Daryun’s face, “I’m truly sorry, but you have to admit that the water is fairly nice, no?”

 

Daryun can tell right away that his liege is not even remotely remorseful about his careless action, and as his heart rate slows back down at the realization that Arslan is, in fact, safe and breathing, and the young man has, in addition, played an unpleasant joke on him, the Black Knight tugs his arm abruptly out of Arslan’s grasp.  

 

“Daryun?” The young king’s brows immediately dip into a troubled frown, teeth worrying over his lower lip.

 

Perhaps his jesting has gone too far after all, and Daryun is genuinely mad at him. The thought instantly lands a heavy weight in his gut, and he reaches both of his arms towards the taller man, a sincere apology at the tip of his tongue.

 

Instead of shoving him away, as Arslan has initially half-anticipated, Daryun merely receives him with a tight embrace that nearly crushes his bones, but he’s cautious even in his moment of swaying emotions. Arslan’s willowy arms wrap snugly over his shoulders and around his neck, his skin cool from being immersed in the water for some time and face buried in the crook of the knight’s neck; the mumble of his name is muffled by his lips against the moist, tanned skin.

 

“Please, Your Majesty, I beg of you: don’t ever play such a cruel joke on me again. I…I thought I’ve lost you and I won’t ever forgive myself should something happen to you…” the Black Knight releases a shuddering breath as his arms tighten around Arslan’s waist, hoisting him up slightly as he continues to murmur against the king’s neck, “You’ve scared me half to death.”

 

Arslan pulls himself back a little, though his arms are still resting on Daryun’s shoulders, and his midnight-blue eyes are filled with remorse as they meet Daryun’s golden irises. A few stray locks of hair are plastered against his cheeks, and some are curling due to the moisture in them; he brushes a thumb reverently across the knight’s jawline as he whispers, “That won’t do. Shall I revive you with a kiss?”

 

The question hangs in the sultry air, the invitation clear as the sky above them.

 

“Are you playing another trick on me, Arslan-heika?” Daryun asks in a careful tone, brows drawn in a perplexed frown, but he leans into Arslan’s gentle touch nevertheless, eyes fluttering close at the warmth of those delicate fingertips.

 

Soft lips cover Daryun’s for but a fleeting moment in a determinedly firm kiss, the scent of the sea poignant as they breathe in, and the knight is undone.

 

The resolve in his heart – a wall he’s meticulously constructed over the years of fighting by Arslan’s side, the promise to his uncle that he’ll protect this child, now a full-grown man and an upstanding emperor of Pars, with his life, and the promise to himself that he’ll never break this precious bond between them no matter how much he yearns for the unattainable – deteriorates like the abandoned sand castles eaten away by waves in an instant.

 

“I would never joke about something as close and important to my heart as your feelings, Daryun,” the young Shah tells him, hot breaths mingling with the knight’s as his raw, honest words burn bright and real.

 

“Of course,” Daryun breathes out, and he swallows before he continues in a hoarse whisper, “Apologies for my foolish presumptions, Your Majesty.” 

 

“I will only forgive you if you return my kiss.” Arslan’s tenor becomes a little bolder, lips twisting into a tiny, playful smile, but his eyes are smoldering in dangerous blue flames that dance wildly in the final strands of orange light of the setting sun as it climbs down the horizon.

 

“As you wish, my liege.”

 

There’s no hesitation as he presses a kiss to Arslan’s mouth with a little more intensity than the king’s previous attempt, his tongue darting out to timidly seek Arslan’s permission, to which he replies with an eager little noise at the back of his throat as he grasps onto Daryun’s shoulder in a vised grip, gathering the wet fabric of his tunic into his fist.

 

The kisses taste of the sea, and the shared warmth of their contact, and fingernails leaving angry red lines on tanned and pale skin when it becomes too much, too hot, is addictive. It’s impossible to let go.

 

The buoyancy of the water makes it easy for Arslan to wrap his legs around Daryun’s waist, and the knight lowers his arms to the small of his back to support the Shah as he moves away from Arslan’s mouth – much to the king’s displeasure. But then his breathing becomes shallow and uneven again when Daryun starts to scatter open-mouthed kisses along the column of his neck, leaving impressions of his teeth and then soothing the sting with the flat of his tongue.

 

Arslan runs his hands into his guardian’s hair, pulling just hard enough to make Daryun gasp, golden eyes flying open at the sensation, as he sucks especially hard on one of the king’s slender shoulders, leaving a violet blossom blooming in its wake.

 

“D-Daryun…I,” Arslan whimpers, eyes slipping close and mouth abused swollen and red as words – embarrassing words of plead and desire swirling into a burning storm of amber in his mind and his lower body – fail to come out. Under the water, Arslan rolls his hips against the knight’s abdomen, wordlessly laying out his request as he feels Daryun shudders visibly when his arousal brushes against the knight’s front.

 

“Let us return to shore, Arslan-heika,” Daryun murmurs hurriedly into the crook of the Shah’s shoulder, and Arslan makes a noise of agreement.

 

Twilight, in a quiet sheet of orange and lilac over their heads, approaches when the sun has completely set for the day, and the first star appears, twinkling weakly in the crisp, clear sky.

 

The sounds of people from the port market are forgotten – blurry and faded into another world – when they finally make it back to the shoreline, dripping and shivering. Half of it is due to the breeze that has begun to pick up as evening looms, yet the other half is from the newly kindled desires within their hearts that, once lit from a small, innocent touch of their hands and an unsuspecting kiss, has spread and spun into a series of wild flames, burning and destroying everything in its path: reason, logic, and promises of the past incinerated into nothing but scorched skeletons of what have been.

 

Leaning back against a boulder with his soaked trousers piled around his feet and palms pressed on each side, which isn’t the most comfortable position to be in as the rock’s uneven surface bites tenderly into his skin, Arslan soon forgets the discomfort when he sees Daryun slowly drops to his knees, darkened eyes ringed in gold staring back up at him as he places his hands on each side of Arslan’s hips, thumb reverently tracing the line of the king’s hipbone and dangerously close to where Arslan needs him to be.

 

The knight litters small, butterfly kisses along where his fingers have traced a path, from Arslan’s hips to the plane of his abdomen, and finally hovering teasingly close to Arslan’s flushed length, his warm breaths against the sensitive skin there causing the Shah to tremble as he cradles the knight’s jaw with a shaky hand.

 

“Is… Is this really all right, Your Majesty?” Daryun lowers his gaze with the sort of hesitance seldom shown on the knight, the moment of lucidity striking back fierce in his mind like a well-manipulated strike of a sword, slicing his fantasy apart to reveal the reality of the consequences of their actions. His heart races at the sight of his liege, bare and so beautiful – the elegant lines of his body, the smooth, pristine skin that bruised too easily and marked with the few scars he bore from past battles, and the high flush of his cheeks and kiss-swollen lips, irises roused to blue and black.

 

“Daryun, I want you. I’ve always wanted you.” Arslan’s voice cracks at the end of his confession; it hangs in the air and the sound of the crashing waves around them swallows it whole.

 

“As long as Arslan-heika desires me, this most humble servant promises to remain by your side as whatever Your Majesty would like me to be.”

 

“I desire nothing more than your fealty and companionship, Daryun. Will you adhere to my capricious wishes?” Gentle fingers guide Daryun to tip his head back up in order for their gazes to meet, and the intense honesty in the young king’s eyes sears into the knight’s soul.

 

“You can take anything you want of me, Arslan-heika,” Daryun says, and he means it – feels the underlying promise churning into a storm. He presses a soft kiss to the supple skin of Arslan’s inner thigh, mesmerized by the way the king’s eyes flutter close at the smallest of touches and fingers tightening in his hair.

 

Daryun takes it as a sign to continue, tongue licking a warm, wet path up his thigh until he reaches the Shah’s length, precum leaking, and he wraps his lips around the tip, tasting salt and musk – not unlike the enthralling scent of the sea that envelops them.

 

Arslan hisses at the overwhelming moist heat of the knight’s mouth, head thrown back and pale throat already marked with bruises from their previous kisses exposed as he lets out a moan stifled by a hand slapped over his mouth.

 

“D-Daryun…haaah––“

 

He pushes his hips forward in a futile attempt to seek more, but Daryun forces the king to stay exactly where he is, insistent fingers leaving imprints around the king’s slender waist as he swallows more – takes him in until the tip of his length hits the back of his throat – and Daryun hears, with satisfaction simmering inside his chest, Arslan falling apart above him, broken syllables dancing like constellations on his tongue and filthy moans spilling from those delicate lips.

 

The king’s usual poised and serene composure dissolves, and Daryun, who continues to rhythmically pull back and thrust forward while occasionally withdrawing enough to lick the slit and the sensitive underside, has never been so fascinated by such a sight: the red stain that has started from Arslan’s cheeks spreads down his neck and glows warm beneath his collarbone, his entire frame is shuddering as if his legs would give out, and those hands that have been burrowing deep into Daryun’s hair have now found their ways to his broad shoulders, his nails digging into his skin and leaving half-moon impressions.

 

“Daryun, I––” Arslan wishes to warn him of his release as his toes curl into the sand and hands hold onto Daryun’s shoulders for dear life. The wire of heat that has started at the pit of his abdomen blazes hotter and tauter until it becomes unbearable, the waves of flames mounting higher and brighter up against his limit until he feels himself plummet, unafraid, knowing – trusting – Daryun will be there to catch his fall.  

 

Daryun swallows everything his liege gives him, and only when he feels Arslan’s length softens in his mouth does he pull back from him, his chest rising and falling raggedly as he scrubs his mouth with the back of his hand. He gradually gets to his feet, but is quickly dragged down by Arslan to share a messy, languid kiss, the taste of himself lingering at the tip of his tongue as he swallows the rumbling groans from the older man.

 

They only part when breathing becomes difficult, and when Daryun is able to focus his gaze on his liege’s face, he sees a small, blissful smile there, and midnight-blue eyes warmer than they have ever been – warm enough that Daryun can almost taste it, keep it protected within his hands, his heart.

 

It seems that they have come to a complete understanding without the exchange of words.

 

Arslan is still a little unsteady on his feet when Daryun leads him over to their belongings, and he leans a little closer against the knight’s side with his arm encircled around his waist, relishing in the warmth of Daryun’s body heat in the chill of the evening.

 

“Your Majesty, please quickly change into these or you might catch a cold,” Daryun tells the king, handing him the neatly folded tunic and trousers before stuffing Arslan’s wet clothing into the sack. The knight is entirely drenched as well, but there’s little he can do for now; he’ll just have to change when he gets back to Gulaze’s residence.

 

“But what about you, Daryun?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Your… situation,” Arslan nods at him pointedly, eyes glancing down at the man’s still-soaked trousers before meeting Daryun’s eyes as they widen in comprehension.

 

“We should hurry back or Elam will start to get worry,” Daryun attempts to change the subject, but he knows he’s lost when Arslan gives him a knowing look, his mouth quirking up into a playful grin.

 

“You need not to feel flustered, Daryun. I’ve told you, have I not – that I only desire you and you alone?”

 

Arslan leaves it at that, smile softening into something more kind, and he turns swiftly to begin walking ahead of the knight, the sky-blue linen fluttering behind him like an ethereal creature’s wings, ready to take flight.

 

They are bound to each other – Daryun believes this in the deepest part of his heart – and with this new, strengthened bond, he can step forward proudly with Arslan by his side.

**Author's Note:**

> In the second arc of the book series, it’s been mentioned that emerald is a mineral that can repel Zahhak’s demonic monsters. In my weird little head canon, Arslan receives the two emerald anklets from Daryun and Narsus as protection. 
> 
> And I have killed the cinnamon roll’s innocence. I apologize.


End file.
